Death of a Raindrop in a Storm

We waited around the corner

With the weeds and the dying flowers of the roadside,

All of us, all of the mourners

Two hundred parallel arms and legs,

Black coated kindred

At the base of the hill

Like raisins left

Forgotten on a windowsill,

And the martyr came

He’d a car to his own

And we hoisted him on our shoulders

And sang him the war songs of yesteryear,

The weepers wept

Moans from somewhere near

Perforated by bursts of gunfire

As his friends took to shooting the clouds out of the sky,

The monotone of the Sheikh

The final accompaniment to this piece,

And then we buried him

And then we forgot about him.


The Blooming of a Short Boy

In the clearing amidst the bushes.

The green leaves of the woods.

Among the honey coated insects,

And the smell of jasmine.

Between the sunflowers of the meadow

A young doe,

Its muscles flexed with

The frolicking motion of young creatures.

In the bright June noon

On this sun stained day.


Day drowns and the moon is drawn,



In a silver spring

Flowing from her lovely neck,

Like sap from an evergreen.


And though the little doe was all but dead

Her eyes still glimmered, two lights in her head.

Perhaps all the stars are

But does’ eyes in the skies,

And in the silver mirror on the floor, see

The face of the man I have for so long sought

To be.

The Scene from My Dream

The road glimmers,

A reflection of the streetlamp

On the wet ground,

And all around

The silence drops slowly.

The petrichor illuminates all.

A black tabby cat crosses the street

Its tail, an antenna.

The dark of the night,

Like a gun slinger threatens,

But the lustering light holds.

And the stars shine somewhat

Through punctures in the dark clouds.

The green on the banks

Grey and dripping with rainwater.

Every now and then

A car passes,

Disturbing the peace for seconds

And then past the curve

Into tomorrow.


The silver moon

Shines down upon

The silent desert dunes,

Like a lighthouse on a calm sea.

And the cool night winds of this barren place,

The only bearers of news.

A campfire in a corner somewhere

To warm the hands of these weary travelers,

Who huddle and speak in hushed tones

As though trying not to wake

The great sleeping wasteland.

The camels have little to eat

And even less to drink.

And all around

Just out of earshot,

The Sahara whispers

Words in an ancient language.

A Depiction of Glory

The armies left

A few hundred men on the hill,

And there is enough blood for

The grass to grow.

The green is drenched in red,

These happy crows will enjoy their meal.

The smell of burnt hair

Like incense in the air,

And some quiet wails

Permeate to other dimensions.

It is all very still,

Only the stained flowers sway

In the cold wind,

And amongst the carnage

He plays the Danse Macabre

Gently on his violin.

Poem Number 42

You think you will have it different?

You think when life fleets

When all is gone and,

The light leaves

It will be different for you?

You think when the darkness comes,

When the body fails.

At the finish line

You think it will not be the same?


Sit on your throne

Smirk at the fools bellow.

Because your blood is honey

Because your heart is ivory

Your fingers are ebony

Your hair is silk

Your breath is fragrance



Your jade toilet

Is still a toilet.

Your feast of truffles and caviar

Is still food.

Your sparkling champagne

Is still a drink.


Your eyes will rot

Just as mine

Just as his

Just as hers,

And we shall see

Not with our rotten eyes

But we shall see.

Adam’s Folk

Seven strong fellows

Silently perched

Face to face,


Ink flies across in crisscross

The round red room.

And under their hidden hides

They bring burnt silver slices

Aimed at another’s hip.

They toast their health,

Flash their wealth

And make subliminal threats.


And all of our lives

Rest on the fives

Of a few dozen.

How the human race

Is still in place, I wonder when

Petty pirates pilot our ships.

And of the seven billion

We chose the brownest of the mold.


Can I help you sir?

Just window shopping for a new weapon.

The people live in the cities

And the bullets live in the people.

Man-un-kind sits atop

The rubbish pile we once called


And let us not forget,

Among us is the blood of Kane.


And when

The claws come grabbing again

Remember then

All monsters were once men.